


There, Out In The Darkness

by OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink



Category: Fringe, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Loyalist Universe, M/M, Other, Seine Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Occupation occurs in a freshly Revolutionised France and there are those who embrace it with open arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART I

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Grey and to ninjaninaiii for understanding what this is. Unbeta'd.

Javert looked out over the city of Paris, the night air brisk as it blew around the top of the Palais de Justice; he stood on the rooftop and pulled his jacket collar tighter around his neck. There were tall pillars of light stationed around the perimeter of the city, extended up into the clouds, the City of Light. But there was limited light within the city itself at this hour, allowing him to look up towards the heavens where the stars waited silently to be acknowledged; he considered viewing the stars in the same way one might regard an old friend. Though he’d never had an old friend, so it was difficult to say if that was an accurate description.

The stars were beautiful, always in the same order, always in the place where he’d left them last; he breathed in deeply and pulled his communicator out of his coat pocket, flipping it open to so that he could check the pattern of lights, to see if they glowed the same as the stars. And sure enough, they did.

He stepped down from the wall and turned back towards the small rooftop entrance he’d entered through.

*****

When Javert had been three, the Occupation had begun within France and at the orders of the Beings who had taken charge of the Bagne of Toulon, every child in the prison had been lined up for inspection. He longed to have the comfort of his mother’s hand holding his, but he’d also known that it would be perceived as a sign of weakness, so he didn’t cry or beg for her. There were four Beings and Their strange appearance was frightful to Javert at first, with Their unusual clothes and hairless skin, but he knew that showing fear would not be tolerated—the instinct to survive was very strong in him and he stood quiet and obedient as the Beings walked down the line.

The Beings came to stop in front of him, eventually and Javert had stared up at Them curiously before remembering his place and lowering his eyes in humility. Then one of the Beings had knelt before him, making Itself eye level with him.

“This one,” the Being had said. “He shall be trained.”

At first, he’d been unsure how to react to the words, but as the Beings continued down the line and disregarded the other children, Javert felt an unusual and exquisite emotion that he later came to learn was pride. As he was led away from the other children when the Beings left, he came to understand that he was important, no, he was better. He was better than any of the other children, than the prisoners, than his parents. Those strange, godlike Beings had decided he was to receive more, that his destiny meant he could rise pass the filth he’d been born into. He was fed better, and given education and instruction, made to study his letters and numbers, and then the law. Javert was happy to devote all of his attention to the instructor brought into the prison to see to his upbringing.

On the occasion he did see his mother, Javert was courteous but distant from her; the Beings had not included her in Their greatness, so why should he? He’d managed so well without her, how could he risk being held back by her? She was a sickly woman and believed in superstitions rather than the sciences, and it took all the discipline within him not to push her away outright. He’d tried to educate her from the Handbook he’d been given, but she’d laughed in a pitying way; and his anger at her rejection of Their word and order had forced him to see that humans were truly helpless to their nature, unable to change. He’d avoided her after that, seeing her presence as a waste of his time, as an insult to his intelligence and good fortune.

Javert appreciated Their minimalistic approach to life—few emotions, few belongings, human interactions reduced to little more than polite greetings and the sharing of information. It was logical and convenient for him to live his life in the way They that had selected for Themselves. He was proud of the young man he was becoming; there was no room for frivolous pursuits, not when there was a need for the Future to be brought about. He felt as though he was working against a deadline, trying to find anything that might bring Their Glory about faster. It was a race and he couldn’t see the finish line, but he had no intention of delaying it because of his inexperience and youth.

Get rid of the unproductive members of society, lock them up, punish them for their crimes. He took particular zeal in seeing the suffering of the nameless faces and bodies that inhabited Toulon—they deserved no mercy for their behaviour in the splendor of Their reign.

Javert abstained from pleasures of the flesh—not due to any rule, but to imitate the chaste nature that came so naturally to Them. It was not difficult and he had enough shame still imbued in him from the slowly fading cultural belief that a man’s attraction to another man was taboo; he did not allow himself to linger on thoughts of the other guards and if they might—on a rare instance—linger on the handsome strangers that would occasionally arrive at the bagne to evaluate the Loyalists employed there, he banished them quickly.

And if he wished to alleviate the teenage hormones that plagued him, he would never allow himself to dwell on the scent of a fellow Loyalist’s cologne ( _“An extravagance,”_ he would think) or the shape of broad shoulders in a uniform ( _“The human body is always a marvel to behold,”_ he would think) or the power another guard wielded ( _“It is good for the law to be put into practice, for discipline to be given,”_ he would think).

He would _never_ think of the filth that resided in Toulon.

Javert sat on an uncomfortable bench during his lunch, his Handbook opened to the passages he favoured most, a small roll and bowl of stew beside him. And maybe his eyes lingered on the very handsome Loyalist who’d arrived that morning to interview all the guards who had been Marked, his eyes drinking in the strong jaw and the light reflecting off the man’s golden hair, and as the man let out a pleased laugh at something one of Javert’s seniors said, Javert felt the heat rising to his cheeks. He lowered his eyes to his book and began to read the long since memorised words. _I am a servant, Their serf, and nothing more. I am but to heed, serve, and obey…_

*****

One of Their most loyal servants had taken Javert out for a walk outside of the prison, her skin as dark as the leather of his uniform belt. She spoke to him of promotions, of opportunities outside the prison walls and he’d clasped his hands tightly behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting with the strange communicator he’d just been issued. He’d never met anyone darker skinned than the gypsies and while there was still prejudice against them within the walls of the bagne, this woman’s skin had not prevented her from achieving a high rank within Their forces. The small medals and ribbons decorating her uniform spoke of accomplishments, of her status, prestige, superiority. Perhaps it _was_ true that They did not withhold from Their servants based on appearance or gender. How truly the world was changing from Their betterment.

Javert’s own skin did not entirely betray his mother’s people, but if exposed to the summer sun, he did start to darken; he could not be sure if he intentionally avoided the light of that star so as to avoid the change of his colour, or if it was simply because work within the bagne was restricted from the sun, but hide he did.

As they walked along the path, Javert hesitated for a moment upon seeing a Being up ahead, obviously waiting for them. Javert nervously began to straighten and smooth his uniform, wishing he’d had prior knowledge so that he might have polished his boots and the metal of his jacket buttons. When they reached the Being, Javert bowed lowly in complete subservience, wishing It victory in Their Occupation of this particular timeline. The woman spoke to the Being in a murmur of Latin, which Javert had been teaching himself, and she gave him a warm smile, no doubt to reassure him that her words were approving. The Being studied the woman’s face intently, and halfway through one of her sentences began to speak in unison; Javert’s stomach tightened further, in awe of It’s abilities.

Then the two turned to look at Javert and the Being studied him, his mind prickling as it was probed.

“But he still clings to the prejudice of ethnicity and skin colour determining value within a social structure,” the Being said in a neural tone.

The woman looked at Javert with a mixture of confusion and perhaps pity; Javert averted his eyes in shame and subservience. Of course, he’d tried to remove those incorrect thoughts from his mind, having read about Their beliefs in the matter, but he was not perfect and was unable to completely uproot the bias that had tainted society for centuries.

“He shall be ReEducated,” the Being said flatly and before Javert could thank the Being for the opportunity to change his views, his mind was filled with a blinding pain.

Paralysed, he forgot everything he’d ever learned about keeping his mind open and pliant for Their use; he’d never felt more disoriented in his life, as though he was drowning, as though he was tied to a burning stake. Memories and words that had long since been forgotten began to float to the surface of his mind and he started to choke as the images were wrenched from his mind brutally. He fell to his knees, fingers shaped into painful claws at his sides, his throat constricted to the point he was nearly unable to breathe; the world around him became silent, as though hands covered his ears and he could feel everything he’d ever thought being sorted through, as though every minute of his life had been indexed in a drawer and now each card was being pulled out and discarded. His body was jerking in short spasms, every nerve alight in pain and the scream he longed to emit was caught beneath his windpipe—

The woman had crouched beside him and was dabbing at his face with her handkerchief, cleaning the blood that had begun to fall from his eyes and nostrils. He turned to look at her, his eyes sensitive from the burst capillaries and veins. The pain had stopped and as though a massive weight had been lifted off his face and shoulders, he found he could move, found he could breathe.

“There’s nothing sinful or shameful of my heritage,” he said softly, bewildered how he could have ever thought such a foolish thing.

The woman smiled at him, tenderly wiping at his skin. “No, there isn’t.”

*****


	2. Part II

Javert fixed his cravat, inspecting himself in the single mirror of his room. There was a tattoo below his right eye, given to him shortly after his seventeenth birthday. The ink had faded slightly in some areas due to ink age, to sunlight, to the age of his skin. He would have had it refinished before he arrived in this small town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, but he’d been unable to make an appointment in time. Now he would have to wait for a traveling Loyalist tattoo officiant who would have the authority to put new ink into his Mark.

Heed. The marking of highest honour. It signified that he was capable of making decisions that reflected Their interests, that his mind was naturally aligned with Their needs, that everything he thought was moving the present towards Their future. It meant he was handpicked by Them, that he had loyalty that would never waiver. Unlike ‘Obey’ which meant a person was an average civilian who was not monitored, but also not trusted with important roles within Their empire. Unlike ‘Serve’, where a person was essentially Their labour, incapable of thinking for themselves, people too stupid and unskilled to live a life without direction and instruction, and worked factories and menial jobs.

His appearance was not of personal importance, but he knew it _was_ of importance to represent his position and status properly; he’d not been selected all those years ago because he was like the lesser citizens. He carefully combed his hair and then tied it back so that it would remain out of his eyes and face. He’d been provided a new uniform, a new hat, a new pocket watch. He was attempting to not feel materialistic greed over his new pocket watch and ran his thumb over the smooth silver metal, feeling the weight of the sturdy chain in his palm. He flipped it open and watched the floating blue numbers rise up to tell him of the time, date, and most astoundingly, the temperature of the air around him; he was still in awe of the machine and when it had been presented to him upon being assigned to this new position, he’d been left stammering and speechless. The weight of his communicator was a familiar and comforting presence in his coat pocket, silent and unlit for the moment.

Montreuil-sur-Mer was a quiet town, in the sense that crime was petty and often committed by individuals, as apposed to groups and gangs found within the larger cities. Javert had been given small, but clean personal quarters that had been reserved for the head Inspector of the town, and a modest salary. The townspeople were fairly unremarkable as a whole, save for their mayor, Monsieur Madeleine.

The Beings had been attracted to the jet beads occasionally worn in jewellery, as it produced a small electric charge when rubbed; quickly, jet had become a very desirable material and the factory that Monsieur Madeleine had created, which had a unique method of cutting was worth a fortune to the town. Many were employed at the factory and as a result, loyalty to Madeleine was strong.

Upon his first day in Montreuil-sur-Mer, M Madeleine had given Javert a small looped strand of jet beads, reminiscent of a Catholic rosary, which he’d seen in a book about the dying religion. _“Many of Their believers have come to like the style of the rosary for their jet; it is pleasing to hold and meditative when reciting the Oath,”_ M Madeleine had said, his voice quiet.

Javert had silently agreed that perhaps it was a clever way to devote oneself to Their words. He kept the beads inside his coat pocket with him every day, though he certainly didn’t need to; there was an odd comfort in having it close, a reminded that no matter where he went, he’d always findothers who said the same oaths, who held the same devotions.

Though there was something about Madeleine that made Javert uneasy.

Perhaps it was the strange moment that Javert had accidentally mistook the mayor for a beast he’d once seen in Toulon, though he dismissed the thought almost immediately—a convict would never be Marked. Perhaps it was from the small tension that gripped the mayor’s posture the moment he saw Javert. Perhaps it was way the man was obscenely wealthy, but was referred to as a saint by the townsfolk, as if the man compared to the people Javert thought of as saints.

Something was being hidden from him and Javert refused to let that stand.

Monsieur Madeleine’s mark was of ‘Obey’, lower than Javert’s Mark. Javert would never show disobedience to a superior who was not as high ranked as he, and he followed Monsieur Madeleine’s orders fully, but it had began to wear at him. Granted, he knew that this was his first mission outside of the bagne and without immediate supervision—it was not logical to expect power over a large city or many people. Montreuil-sur-Mer was the first in (hopefully) a number of Inspector positions, before he would be put in a position to preside over matters of large importance. So he humbled himself and did what was expected of him, not allowing his ego to taint his duties.

He was the only person in Montreuil-sur-Mer with the Mark of Heed; Javert’s vain streak ran through him like gold in granite—there was a smug satisfaction to be the highest regarded Loyalist of the town, the undoubtably most pious and pure citizen. No one was better than him here. He was the example. He was Their law.

There was a commissary on the other side of Montreuil-sur-Mer, only a few years old, but fairly well stocked considering that the population was still mostly non-Loyalist in composition. Javert brought home his monthly rations every two weeks, using the hired delivery boys who carried the wood crates filled with powdered and canned foods that he’d been allotted, occasionally spending a few credits on fresh vegetables or fruits. He’d been able to forgo the unnecessary cost of a housekeeper, cooking his meager meals on the little wood stove that warmed his quarters and enjoying his privacy. The room also contained a small, single light that sat by the window during the day, soaking in the sunlight and he brought to his bedside at night to read from; it was the same technology used in the large street lamps outside and it was a marvel, not a miracle.

Satisfied with his appearance, Javert left his quarters and made his way to the street; it was still early, and while he had the time to visit the Thoughchurch for their earliest services, he had patrols to carry out and had already made his offerings on the small altar table by the front door. The sky was mostly clear of clouds and the light of the rising sun was not yet strong enough to cause the street lamps to turn off yet; he kept his eyes and ears sharp, looking for anyone or anything amiss as he walked towards the docks.

He’d sought ReEducation for his opinions on prostitutes and after a blistering session that had taken almost an hour to complete and then two additional days in the ReEducation Centre’s recovery ward, he was able to look at the women (and men) who elected to keep that particular profession with as much indifference as he might the flower vendors and factory workers. Montreuil-sur-Mer had three small brothels located by the docks; they were quick to get the sailors fresh off the boats, the women in relaxed and seductive poses against the fronts of the buildings. Even this early in the morning a few were out waiting for potential customers, their dresses bright against the dull bricks and wood. He gave a small acknowledging nod to the women, who nodded to him in turn, watching him with calculating eyes; it would seem that he was the first member of law enforcement within the town who didn’t seek to disrupt their business and in return, the prostitutes were willing to act as informants to Javert, providing him with information about the docks and the men who came ashore.

He was very quick to reprimand the women who did not use the proper routes, much to the mayor’s chagrin. Javert protested on a regular basis that the women who elected to steal the business of the ones who were lawfully employed would have to either have to find a job at one of the brothels or a different profession all together. Madeleine had said a few things which Javert had scoffed at—how could anyone _not_ have opportunity in Their world?—and had dismissed them as the words of someone who obviously was not as well read of the Handbook as he. Madeleine seemed to still cling to the primitive beliefs that it was a shameful and filthy occupation, and Javert had caught him frequently passing out alms to the women who hid themselves in alleyways where the sailors could find them for cheap pleasure. Javert was ready to throw them all in the bagne for breaking the rules They had created.

One prostitute at the final brothel Javert walked past nodded her head towards the front door and he paused, then came closer. Her right cheek was marked with ‘Serve’ and in her left hand was a folded piece of paper. She said nothing, turning her head to gaze at the other women leaned against the front of the building and allowed him to pluck the paper away. He continued back on his route, tucking the paper into his pocket, planning to read it once he’d rounded the corner of the street. And as always, his spies did not disappoint.

His eyes scanned the piece of paper with glee. Ah, a wanted criminal was passed out inside the brothel. He smiled, which to anyone passing by would appear to be an ugly grimace revealing his teeth. Hurrying towards the town square where he knew a few of his men were on patrol, he began to flesh out a plan to capture this fugitive and bring him in for questioning.

*****

Becoming a Loyalist meant he never felt alone, even when he chose solitude. No, Javert knew that wherever he went, there was surely someone nearby who was striving for the same goals and purpose as he. He stood in the Thoughtchurch that the town had converted from a chapel, the back of his legs pressed against the seat of the pew behind him. The Thoughtchurch was a place where he had absolute freedom to think whatever he wished without worry; his eyes scanned the other occupants seated and standing ahead of him, his mind making calculations and evaluations of their characters. He considered what sort of blasphemous thoughts would be wasted in such a peaceful space, things he would never think about even if he had the freedom to do so. If his mind were ever to be checked for integrity, it would be found that he was was truly a pious man.

His hand clasped the rosary that M. Madeleine had given to him, his fingers traveled over the beads slowly, feeling the warmth of the jet, and silently he repeated the Sixteen Edicts of Their Law, finding a sense of comfort. He treated the moment as both meditative and a luxury; so rarely did he have the time to spend it with his attention undivided. At the moment, the only thing that existed was Their future and the words They’d brought back to form a better world earlier. His fingers continued their movement over the beads and his lips formed the words that shaped his every thought.

There were hooded monastics standing at the front of the Thoughtchurch, cleaning the altar space and as the clock struck the hour, they began to chant in Latin; an oath Javert had first learned when he taught himself the language, he felt his lips twitch slightly in an unexpected smile at the feeling of unity with all of these strangers, ones who properly trembled before Them. He murmured his oath along with them, watching astutely as the glass and metal vessels of water were brought out and presented on the altar, awaiting any Being’s arrival.

When Javert had first come to live in Montreuil-sur-Mer, one of the monastics here in this Thoughtchurch had reminded him that he was welcome to submit his name and personal dossier to the Companion Registry, that someone could be assigned to be his partner. To be assigned to live with someone…it had its appeal in many ways, to simply accept another Loyalist as duty and partner, but he’d felt nauseated at the prospect of being matched with someone who was not equally matched to him. The standards that he—and They— held himself to were very high and to be burdened with someone who lacked the dedication he’d spent his entire life honing was unacceptable. No, there was too much room for error and uncertainty and—

He forced himself to look away from the handsome young man in the front whose hood didn’t entirely cover his face. Javert’s deepest fear was to be assigned to someone he might be actually attracted to, and thusly give him a reason to disregard the careful mastery over his own emotions and mind he’d come to rely on. And he prized his mind and control too much to sacrifice it.

The oath came to an end and Javert took his leave. Outside the building stood M Madeleine, gazing up at the bright mirrors that adorned the now-empty bell tower; the early morning light reflected brilliantly across the town.

“Monsieur Madeleine, good morning,” he greeted, giving a polite bow.

“Inspector Javert, good morning,” Madeleine greeted in turn.

Javert wondered on occasion why the handsome mayor had never elected to marry or apply to have a companion assigned to him; it was a shame—Javert swallowed—it was a shame that Madeleine was not higher ranking, as he’d have a better quality of Loyalist to choose from. While it wasn’t forbidden or even taboo to associate oneself with someone given a lower Mark, Javert simply thought it was a pity to be held back.

“If you will pardon me, Inspector Javert,” Madeleine said and Javert realised belatedly he was blocking the steps.

He stood aside. “Of course, monsieur.”

Madeleine nodded to him once more and Javert’s hand tightened around the jet beads as the mayor walked up the steps, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed across Javert. Yes, it was such a shame he only had the word ‘Obey’.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about Les Mis is from fanfic and ninjaninaiii. Sorry for any inconsistencies.


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